Put On Your Smiley Face
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Jake finds he can no longer hide an embarrassing secret from Heather.


**Author notes**: For my awesome beta tanaqui, who wanted Jake-inna-towel. The muse had other ideas... Also, thanks muchly for helping to find the _only day_ in canon where this story could fit.

**Put On Your Smiley Face**

**By Scribblesinink**

"Well, this is it." Heather unlocked the front door and kicked off her shoes, before heading in. "My humble abode."

Jake hovered in the doorway, cautiously sticking his head around the door. Heather's house might be small, but it looked very welcoming. The door opened directly onto the living room, where a couple of armchairs and a small couch surrounded a low coffee table. The sofa was half-hidden under a collection of colorful throw pillows, carpets covered the wooden floor, and striped curtains kept at bay the chill from the windows. Books and papers were strewn about, and clusters of thick candles waited to be lit after sunset. The room was very, well, _Heather_.

"Please ignore the mess." Scurrying around, she gathered loose pages from a notepad into tidy piles and collected together a couple of paperbacks lying haphazardly on the coffee table. "I keep meaning to clean up, but—." Glancing up, she finally noticed he was still standing in the doorway. She straightened, clutching the books in her arms. "You can come in, you know."

"Um, I'm good. I'll wait out here."

"Don't be silly. I don't know how long I'll need to get everything together." She shot him a curious look. "Surely you're not going to wait out there in the cold for who knows how long while I've got a perfectly warm living room right here?"

_Warm_ was perhaps a bit of an overstatement, Jake thought. The fire in the hearth had died down to orange embers and most of the warmth had evaporated already. But Heather did have a point: compared to outdoors....

He gestured a gloved hand at his feet. "I don't want to muck up your floor." His boots were splattered with mud.

"So?" Balancing on one leg, Heather wiggled her foot, encased in a red sock, at him. "Take your boots off."

Yeah, that was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. Heather was looking at him in a way he couldn't quite decipher, and Jake knew he could no longer come up with excuses to wait outside without seeming either rude or an idiot. He nodded in resignation, kneeling down to untie his shoe laces.

He worked as slowly as he could, pretending to have trouble with the knots. After a few moments, he heard Heather crossing the room. "I'll be in the kitchen." He nodded absently at her remark. "I suppose you wouldn't say no to coffee?"

That made Jake pause and glance up. "You still have coffee?" By now, most people had used up whatever luxuries they'd had in their stores. And almost overnight, coffee had turned into a luxury item.

"Yeah. Had a couple pounds of whole beans delivered right before the bombs. With everything that's been going on, I've barely had the chance to use any of it." She grinned. "I'll take that look on your face as a yes. Consider it your lucky day, Jake Green." Her voice faded as she disappeared through another doorway into what he presumed was the kitchen.

He chuckled ruefully to himself, finally kicking off his boots and plucking at his socks to straighten them. He grimaced at what he found, and half-considered putting his boots back on and devising an excuse that he'd remembered something else that needed doing in preparation for their trip to Black Jack. But that would be unfair to Heather: he'd promised to help her collect the books and tools she needed to put people to work figuring out how to turn kitchen oil into bio-diesel, and he couldn't run out on her. He'd just have to be mindful of the situation.

He padded further into the living room, and picked up a piece of wood from the stack next to the hearth. Dropping it on the embers, he glanced around for the poker and hunched down before the fireplace, stirring the coals until they started glowing brightly. Finally, the wood caught, small flames licking at the log. He instantly felt the heat on his face. Backing away, he settled himself on the small sofa, stretching out his legs and hiding his feet under the table.

A moment later, Heather came in, bringing the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee with her. Jake inhaled deeply and sat up a little straighter. "That smells good." It seemed like a very long time since he'd last had a cup of decent brew, even if it was really only a few months since the September attacks and everyone in town started running out of supplies they'd always taken for granted.

She handed him a cup and made for the hearth, stepping high over his stretched-out legs. Without thinking, he shifted them to make room.

"Oh...." A giggle followed her soft exclamation.

He winced. "Yeah, I know." A little put out, he tried to keep one foot hidden under the other, all the while knowing it was a vain attempt to hold on to his dignity—the damage was already done.

His big toe was peeking out through a hole in his right sock the size of a quarter.

That morning, when he'd first noticed it, the hole had been much smaller, and he'd been in too much of a hurry to get to City Hall and help Eric keep Gray from whatever half-cocked plan the new mayor had thought up that he hadn't bothered finding another pair. It hadn't seemed much of an issue at the time.

But, then, he hadn't counted on ending up in Heather Lisinki's living room in stockinged feet.

"You know, it's not like I can go to the nearest store and get a new pair." He knew he sounded petulant, but dammit!

"Maybe you can trade some of the salt for a few pairs tomorrow? Gray'll be thrilled about that." Heather's mouth twitched as she attempted to keep a stern face. She failed miserably, but he no longer felt so chagrined when he saw the way her cheeks dimpled. "You really shouldn't walk around like that, you'll get blisters. C'mon, give it to me." She put down her coffee and held out her hand. "I have some wool left over from a school project somewhere; I'll see I can fix it."

Despite his self-consciousness, he chuckled. "Is there anything you _can't_ fix?"

Heather shrugged, shooting him a rueful grin. "My espresso machine? Mary Bailey's satellite dish? The internet at the Cyberjolt Cafe?"

Jake snorted a laugh. "Hey, nobody's asking for miracles." He reached down to pull off the offending sock, grateful at least that he'd put it on fresh that morning.

Heather took it. "I'll be right back."

It took her longer to return than he expected. He soon discovered the fire gave off enough heat that he could shuck his jacket while he waited, nursing his coffee and trying to make it last. Finally, even the last sip was gone. He put the mug back on the table and leaned into the heap of pillows. Momentarily unburdened by demands, with nobody requiring his attention for whatever new crisis might've cropped up, he let his mind wander.

"Jake?" Heather's soft voice pulled him from a dream of barbecuing steaks on the beach in San Diego, and he blinked up at her. Someone had draped an afghan over him while he slept.

He yawned. "How long was I out?"

"An hour or so. Long enough for me to find the books I wanted, and to solve your, um, wardrobe problem." Her eyes twinkled in a way that made him a little apprehensive. Had he been talking in his sleep or something? He sat up straighter and took the balled-up sock she offered.

It wasn't until he tried to put it on that he understood what had her so pleased with herself: where the hole had been, a bright yellow smiley face, with eyes and mouth picked out in red, winked up at him. It wasn't perfectly round, and—he wiggled his toe inside the sock—he feared it might chafe worse than before, but, looking up at her, he couldn't help but grin .

"I'm sorry," she said, not bothering to hide a laugh. "I didn't have dark gray wool, only yellow and red, and pink...."

He rolled his eyes; he supposed he should count himself lucky she'd picked the yellow. "Thank you." He turned his foot this way and that to show off the splotch of color. "You really are a woman full of surprises."

And was is his imagination, or did she blush a little at that?

**Disclaimer**: this story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series _Jericho_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.


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